Fading In Music
by ConcertiGrossi
Summary: Weatherby Swann/Elizabeth's mother - A night when care takes a respite.


**Title**: Fading in Music

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, mostly

**Pairing:** Swann/OFC

**Rating:** PG

**Author's Note: **Written for the Swagfest challenge at the raisethedead community on livejournal, for meowbooks. She wanted "cozy simple moments or complex (i.e. contemplating destiny, do we have a choice?). Fluffy Nonsense, drama, dramedy, angst, adventure,Will/Elizabeth, Elizabeth/Norrington, Jack,Will, Elizabeth,James Norrington, Murtogg and Mullroy,Overlooked Characters (Navy, Barbossa's crew,Governor Swann) (I'm not very picky...)"

The prompt words she gave were "twitch," "twinkle" and "sesquipedalian." I took 'em and ran.

* * *

Spring hadn't quite taken hold yet. It still got dark depressingly early and, on this particular evening, sleet peppered against the windows. However, if one had the good fortune to sit before a blazing fire in a well-appointed sitting room, in a genteel address near Grosvenor Square, the raw weather outside only cast in sharp relief the warmth and comfort found within.

And at such an address, in such a sitting room, sat Cecilia Swann, neé Bradford. Two braces of candles illuminated the silk stretched across her embroidery frame: if all went well, it would become a newly embroidered waistcoat for her husband. It was an extravagance, to have so much light so late at night, but this was Mrs. Swann's first project since her recovery had allowed her to once more take up her favorite hobby, and she found she couldn't resist.

And nor would her husband deny her this pleasure, not for anything in the world. "Are you certain, my dear, that you have enough colors to choose from?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Not remotely! I haven't a thread to work with!" She smiled: it was a running joke between them. Mrs. Swann was not given to frivolous spending; at least, not when compared to the majority of women in her set, but she had her blind spots, and her embroidery was one of them. Wools and linens were too coarse and too dull to catch her imagination, so she filled her enormous sewing-chest with the finest silks, in the brightest colors, whether she had an immediate use for them or not. Cochineal-red and logwood-black, madder-orange and indigo-blue: fibers and dyestuffs from the farthest reaches of the earth were all brought together in this box, at her command.

She'd been so ill. For months, she'd suffered. The headaches were first, then intermittent catalepsies, and then, palsy. She'd felt nauseous and weak all the time, and no medicine seemed to help. No expense had been spared: she'd seen the best doctors, and undergone the latest treatments, but all seemed hopeless, until one day, it stopped getting worse. After that, each day was a little better, until finally the doctors said she could resume her normal life. She and her husband had rejoiced, and they'd treated every day since like a gift from God.

She sized up the pattern already pricked and pounced on the cloth, and massaged her right hand with her left. One of the early symptoms of her disorder had been a twitch in her fingers that had made it impossible for her to do any kind of fancy-work, but that was all in the past, now. She chose her colors, threaded the needle and, with a slight grin and a fearless hand, plunged the needle through the snow-white, virgin damask.

The intended recipient looked up from his desk with a small smile. He was working on a speech for the Commons, celebrating Admiral Vernon's great triumph at Portobello, but, as far as he was concerned, this small scene playing out before him was a greater victory than Portobello, Agincourt and Philippi all rolled into one. He'd been so afraid that she would be taken from him. For all that theirs was an arranged marriage, Weatherby Swann was madly in love with his wife. They'd met for the first time a scant week before their engagement was announced. She had just turned nineteen and had neither the face nor the fortune to command a brilliant match. He was in his mid-thirties at the time: he'd taken up the law after selling out of the army, and had just become an MP via Viscount Sewellsby's pocket borough. It was an entirely respectable alliance, and, as it turned out, the pair was remarkably well-suited. Their acquaintance became affinity, affinity became affection, and affection, in due time, became love.

The two of them worked in companionable silence for a while, as the fire crackled and popped.

"Lady Sewellsby was good enough to call today…" said Mrs. Swann.

"That was kind of her," her husband replied.

"It was! And she invited us to an assembly next Tuesday. I accepted, of course."

"Of course… provided you feel well enough that day..."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure I will. How I've missed going into society!" She smiled. "Even Mrs. Darracott's chatter was diverting and I swear, I've never met any female more addicted to the scandal-sheets. As if any reasonable person cared about the doings of the earl of Essex or the marchioness of Chalfont!"

Swann laughed, but his reply was cut off by a knock at the door. "Come!" he said.

The door opened, and Miss Dover, their daughter's governess, brought in her young charge. "We came to bid you good night," she said.

"It's a little late," said Mrs. Swann eyeing the clock.

Miss Dover nodded. "My apologies, madam. We were reading, and we lost track of the time."

"Oh, Mamma, we just had to finish the chapter!" pleaded Elizabeth.

Her daughter's enthusiasm was irresistible; Mrs. Swann's eyes sparkled, and she smiled. "I'll overlook it just this once."

"And what are you reading, my dear?" asked Swann.

"Captain Singleton, Pappa!" she gushed, forgetting the dignity of her nine years. "It's by the same author as Robinson Crusoe! It's about a gentleman who goes to sea after being stolen by gypsies as a child, and he crosses Africa and fights pirates!"

"How… exciting," he said, with little enthusiasm. "Are you sure it won't give you nightmares?"

She gave him an odd look, as if he'd just suggested that elephants might come rattling down the chimney. "No… why would it?"

Mrs. Swann intervened. "It sounds very interesting, Elizabeth, but now it's time for bed. Come give your mother a kiss."

The girl complied, and then curtsied to her father. "Good night, Pappa."

"Good night, Elizabeth." Weatherby smiled. He waited until the pair was safely upstairs, and then questioned his wife. "I'm not sure that we should be encouraging her to read such books."

"Better that she read these wild tales than fill her head with silly romances, or tawdry gossip from the newspapers."

"While other girls play with dolls and tea sets, she wants a sword! And a spyglass!"

"You refine too much on it, Mr. Swann. All girls go through a time like this, when they're young, and if this fixation is allowed to run its course, it will be forgotten." She laughed, a musical sound that always warmed his heart. "In a few years, she will have nary a thought in her head but for dresses and balls and handsome young blades, and you, my dear sir, will be longing for the days when she thought only of pirates and adventuring."

He chuckled. "I suppose that's so," he finally agreed, and turned his eyes back to his pages with a sigh. He wasn't usually called upon to give speeches, and was out of practice. He'd achieved some minor successes in Parliament; he was more diligent than gifted, but as a ploddingly loyal back-bencher, he was guaranteed at least a small measure of further promotion. However, for now, his position allowed him to keep his family in a respectable style, and with that he was content.

"Is it giving you difficulty?" Mrs. Swann asked sympathetically.

"No more so than usual. May I read it to you?"

"Certainly…"

"Sir, it is on this great and glorious occasion that I am privileged to address this House. I know I risk tediousness, given the eloquent perorartions already elocuted by my august colleagues, but I must add, with no risk of rodomontade, that we must all fervently and enthusiastically rejoice in the Herculean victory won by His Royal Majesty's forces at Porto Bello! There are those omnipresent Livies amongst us who, wrinkling their noses and sighing tiresomely, will hold forth at an entirely prosy lengths about the sallow, adynamic asthenia of men in these marescently modern times, but when those priggish coxcombs hold forth with their floccinaucical natterings, we may illumine the valorous exploits of Admiral Vernon and say, 'Here is one who may stand with Sir Walter Raleigh and Sir Francis Drake as a true exemplar of British strength! Of British valor! Of British ingenuity!' The forces of Liberty and Enlightened Reason have triumphed over Despotism and rank superstition! Yes, we must all glory in this day, irregardless of which side of this august house we sit!"

Mrs. Swann inwardly winced. As far as she was concerned, her husband was possessed of many sterling qualities, but oratory, sadly, wasn't one of them. He continued interminably in the same vein, and she began to work out how to gently phrase her corrections.

"And so, gentlemen, I put forth that we, as a body, must endeavour to congratulate His Majesty on the success of his arms!"

"Excellent!" his wife lied, and applauded gently. "But if I might put forth a few minor alterations…?"

"Please do, my dear! You always have such excellent suggestions…"

As she had so many times before, Mrs. Swann began to rewrite her husband's speech.

And so the evening passed, not at all unpleasantly. When the clock struck ten, Weatherby looked up. "It's getting late. You should retire."

"I suppose so. It feels strange, keeping country hours in the city."

"Now, Mrs. Swann, Dr. Richmond said…"

"Yes, yes, I know…" she began to wrap up her threads and put away her needles.

Before she could cover it for the night, however, Swann came over to admire her handiwork. He surveyed the complicated design laid out on the heavy silk. She'd almost finished part of one the flowers in the lower front corner: a shaded green stem with an explosion of reds and pinks for the bloom, brought out in stitches so fine they looked as if they were painted on. The design itself was summer incarnate – full-blown blossoms and twining vines, exuberantly colored, a true testament to Cecilia Swann's artistry. "It will be beautiful, my dear. I shall be proud to wear it," said her husband.

"Don't praise it until it's finished! You'll put a hex on it." She started to blow out the candles.

He laughed. "I'm dreadfully sorry. I won't say another word."

"See that you don't!" she teased, rubbing her neck. "I suppose I should go to bed, but I'm not in the least tired." She gave him a meaningful glance.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Are you sure? But the doctor…"

She cut him off. "I'm sure. I'm quite well, I promise you." She laid her hand on his cheek. "Would you escort me to my room, Mr. Swann?"

He grinned, gave a slight bow, and offered her his arm. "I would be honored, Mrs. Swann."

She took it, and together they adjourned for the night.


End file.
